


saving peter

by thompsborn



Series: parkner week 2020 [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Angst, Anticipation, Injury, M/M, Parkner Week 2020, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, idk how to tag this but its like lowkey ansgt and then a happy ending, iron lad - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25665307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thompsborn/pseuds/thompsborn
Summary: “Oh shit—” Peter yelps again, higher, louder, a sound of distress that silences every other possible sound. Harley hears the way that Peter seems to lurch in the change of the wind, listens with bated breath as there’s air against the microphone—too much, too fast—and then a thud.“Peter?” Tony sounds strangled when he speaks. “Pete? What just happened? Are you—”A groan, and the thwip of the webs once more. “They caught up. ‘M gonna try to—get away, or—I don’t know, but they’re—fuck—ow—they’re on my heel now and they’re—oh my god—LET ME GO—”Another thud, much larger in impact, and—a scream, for a second, before Peter’s suddenly disconnected.-parkner week 2020, day two: iron lad
Relationships: Harley Keener & Tony Stark, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: parkner week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859782
Comments: 7
Kudos: 217





	saving peter

**Author's Note:**

> oop oop oop here's some mild whump and harley saving the daaaaay

day two—iron lad

Harley sits in the lab—feels his fingers twitch against the table top, bounces his knee as he sits on the bench, shoulders hunched and breathing just the slightest bit heavier (though he would not care to admit this if someone were to walk in and ask), inhales shallow and exhales too quick, not really getting all the air out in time for the next choppy chest-jumping way that he sucks in more, until his veins feel almost flooded with too much oxygen, which is—the opposite of what he thought hyperventilating would do to him, really, but maybe it’s just his own special brand of not being able to breathe right.

He’s seen panic attacks—he’s helped people out of them. This is like that, but—to the left. Not quite the same as the various versions of panic attacks that he’s witnessed (the very obvious ones, with the inability to breathe and the paranoia and such, and the more subtle kind of panicking, too, the shaky hands and frantically flickering gaze moving around the room, not exactly glazed over, but not really focused, either) but definitely similar enough to make his chest kind of ache with his uneven breathing.

The onslaught of sound doesn’t help, but he refuses to turn off his link to the comm system. It’s terrifying and borderline heartbreaking to listen in on the people he knows and cares for as they fight not to survive, but to save the lives of others, their own lives be damned. But, at the same time, listening to the comms is better than watching the news broadcast, because he can hear as they communicate, can hear when they make an ill-timed joke to try and ease each other’s fears, can hear every time someone gets hit but immediately gets back up again and tells the rest of the team that they’re okay. Terrifying, yes, but a comfort nonetheless—constant reassurance than everyone is alive and (mostly) okay.

Still, there’s so much noise, the background fighting and the shouting and the talking and the orders barked over the comm and the pained grunts and groans—all of it seems to mix together and fuel the trembling in his hands, the way his body is all jittery and unable to keep still—breathing not evening out just quite yet.

But then there’s a bark of a laugh and Peter says, “Guys, one of the alien dudes just ran into the side of a building and knocked itself out. That was—oh my god, that’s so funny—"

The genuine amusement in his tone has the ends of Harley’s lips twitching up into a small smile, a bit of fondness sort of swirling in with all the anxiety and stuff, making his shoulders drop in slight relaxation. If Peter can find something funny enough to giggle at while in the middle of a fight, then there can’t be that much to worry about, right?

“Stay focused, kid,” Tony says, and his voice is entirely serious, not at all fond or amused like Harley is. That makes Harley’s small smile fall instantly, because Tony—he sounds stressed, in a way that isn’t entirely unfamiliar when Peter’s on a mission with them, but on top of that stress is an audible layer of fear, and it quickly becomes clear why that fear is there when there’s a grunt and Tony adds on, “Christ, there’s more of them—Peter, seriously, I can see you not looking at the things trying to kill us, can you just for the love of fucking god keep your focus on the damn aliens?”

“I _am_ focused,” Peter says, almost scoffs. There’s a whoosh of air, then: “See? Just took out two.”

There’s a snort, but it’s dry, that comes from Sam. “Four hundred and twenty nine more to go.”

And a lapse of silence, before Peter curses lightly, not really under his breath, but kind of quiet in comparison to the constant sounds of fighting coming from everyone else’s ends. “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah, no _shit_ it’s a lot—”

“Wilson,” Tony cuts in, words a bit sharp. “Watch the tone. That’s my kid you’re talking to.”

Harley’s knee starts to bounce more aggressively, wishing someone would bust out a joke to break the tension a little bit, like they usually do—just that reassurance that this is something they can handle, that there won’t be any more than bumps and bruises to take care of. Worst case scenario, a broken bone. But all of them—they sound more and more tense as time goes on, and time does go on, ticking, somehow, far too fast yet passing all too slow, and soon enough, it’s been nearly an hour since the alarm went off in the first place and there’s apparently no sign of the fight stopping anytime soon.

Clint is panting when he says, “I’m getting tired over here, guys.”

“Can’t exactly stop to take a nap, Barton,” Steve responds, tone clipped—behind his voice, there’s the sound of feet against pavement, an object swinging through the air, and the collision of the shield slamming into the jaw of these alien creatures. From Harley’s understanding, having not seen what they actually look like, they’re nearly humanoid type creatures, but larger, taller, with thick skin and bald heads. Natasha already gave them all the tip to try and aim hits at the temple, because the skin is less thick there, and with more and more of these aliens continuing to appear from the underground portal that Strange is working on trying to close, their best bet is to just knock as many of the damn things out cold as fast as possible and let SHIELD agents worry about cuffing their unconscious forms to keep them contained once they awaken again. Steve grunts and asks, “Any updates on the portal?”

Stephen’s response is delayed by a few seconds, and when he speaks, he sounds strained and aggravated beyond belief. “Progress,” is all he says. “Not as much as I’d like, but progress, nonetheless. I can assure you, however, that I am working as fast as I can without risking a negative reaction that could potentially cause the portal to swallow the entirety of New York whole. Wong is trying to help speed things up.”

“I don’t suppose I can bribe you to risk it and just shut the damn thing down?” Tony questions sarcastically, a humorless sort of chuckle twisting his words together.

“Did I not just say that risking it could literally kill every single person in New York, yourself and the team included?” Stephen fires back. “Do I really have to repeat myself for you to understand how precarious of a situation this is? This portal is spelled to only close for the being that opened it, and Wong and I have to find out how to close it without the entire thing fighting back against us, Stark.”

There’s a light grumble, before Tony puffs out, “I was _joking,_ Wizard.”

“Uh—”

Harley sits up ramrod straight at that small, barely there interjection—almost completely blending into the background with everything else, except—except it’s Peter’s voice, kind of wavering through that single syllable and sounding unsure. Harley must be the only one that hears it, though, because no one else on the comms seem all that concerned, only trying to interject into the argument that’s quickly sprouting between Tony and Stephen, telling the two of them to grow up and take this seriously.

There isn’t another interjection for a few moments, to the point that Harley’s battling between worrying that Peter’s somehow been knocked down and relaxing into the hope that whatever it was has already been solved, until, in the middle of Bucky barking out some curse words in Russian while telling Tony and Stephen to shut the hell up, Peter loudly clears his throat and cuts in with, “Uh, guys?”

Mixed into the wavering uncertainty is genuine terror. Harley can tell—and so can Tony, apparently, as he seems to instantly forget the bickering and immediately asks, “Peter? What’s wrong?”

“I, uh—” Peter stops, yelps—Harley hears the thwip of his web shooters and an angry sort of roar that sounds not nearly far enough away. “There was this—cluster, of the aliens, and I was taking them out and there was—I was almost done, but—there’s more now, they just—the subways, you know? They all just came—like, _flooding_ out of the subway and—the street is—it’s already been evacuated but now there’s so many of them and I can’t, um—they’re all after me and I don’t think I can take them all out alone.”

It's clear that Peter is trying to sound casual with this, but the fact that he’s asking for help at all is proof that he really is being swarmed—if he’s willing to not only admit he needs help, but also ask the entire team for someone to help him on the open comm’s? That’s not a good thing. Tony clearly figures that out, too, because he instantly curses. “Shit, alright, uh—I’m really held up here, bud. Anyone else available?”

Harley finds himself rooting for a savior—doesn’t care who it is, just knows that someone needs to help Peter before something really bad happens. But Clint is first to answer, saying that he’s also being cornered by a couple dozen that he can’t get away from at that moment. Natasha and Steve are taking care of a cluster of the aliens that were trying to go after civilians that are still trying to evacuate the area, and can’t leave without risking the safety of the civilians. Sam is with Tony, just as held up with the aliens they’re working on taking down. Wanda, for a moment, gives him hope—says that she only has two more in front of her and then she can head over to offer her assistance, but then she loudly swears and informs them that another swarm just turned the corner that no one else is around to deal with, so she can’t actually make her way to Peter until after she manages to take them all down—not as easy, because along with their thick skin, they seem to have some kind of block that won’t allow Wanda to just worm her way into all of their heads and knock them all out at once, which was her original plan when the fight started.

“Shit,” Tony says again, once everyone has gotten back and remorsefully informed them that they can’t help. There’s a bite to his tone, like he wants to put blame on everyone for not being able to drop what they’re doing to help Peter, but he’s capable of thinking through that irrational, parental anger that often ignites within him whenever his kids are in danger. Whether the kid is biological, like Morgan, or semi-adopted, like Peter—or, considered a son in law already, like Harley, even though him and Pete haven’t been dating very long and they’re just nineteen and getting ready to start their second year at ESU. It isn’t anyone’s fault that they’re caught up in their own fights—but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept. “Okay. Okay. Pete? How are you holding up, kiddo? Are you safe?”

The rest of the comms are damn near silent, everyone clearly anticipating Spidey’s response. From Peter’s end, there’s the familiar thwipping of his webs, a gust of air that’s somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and then he replies with, “Well, uh—I’m just leading them in circles right now, to be honest. This whole block has been cleared of civilians and they’re all chasing after me, so I’m just trying to keep them away from other people, but—they’re _fast,_ Mister Stark. They’re gonna catch up at some point. Soon, I think, ‘cause—‘cause they were fourty feet behind me, but Karen says they’re only twenty five feet away, now, and they’re getting, uh—they’re getting closer, that’s for sure. I can’t go any faster.”

It’s in the midst of these last five words that Peter’s voice sort of cracks, reveals, beneath the forced attempt at sounding like he isn’t scared, that he’s actually terrified. Harley is just staring down at his hands as his nails relentlessly tap against the metal beneath his palms, sinks his teeth into the inside of his lower lip and bites down so hard that the action draws blood, tries—with everything he has—not to do something drastic, something impulsive and stupid and reckless and—

“Oh _shit—”_ Peter yelps again, higher, louder, a sound of distress that silences every other possible sound. Harley hears the way that Peter seems to lurch in the change of the wind, listens with bated breath as there’s air against the microphone—too much, too fast—and then a thud.

“Peter?” Tony sounds strangled when he speaks. “Pete? What just happened? Are you—”

A groan, and the thwip of the webs once more. “They caught up. ‘M gonna try to—get away, or—I don’t know, but they’re—fuck— _ow_ —they’re on my heel now and they’re—oh my god— _LET ME GO—”_

Another thud, much larger in impact, and—a scream, for a second, before Peter’s suddenly disconnected.

Harley is on his feet before he even realizes that he’s moving, hands shaking at his sides as he pushes away from the workbench and towards the smaller room attached to the main lab—his own space, for his own projects that he doesn’t want anyone else to look at or touch. While he goes, he keeps listening to the comms, just to see if anyone else is on their way to Peter to see what’s going on, and they aren’t—there’s just too many of the aliens and they can fly, too, because of fucking course they can, so it’s not like someone can just escape in the air and get a quick look without being attacked again.

There’s a door, attached to the right side of his lab space. He reaches it, raises his hand and presses his palm into a panel on the wall, fingers spread out, hold it flat against the surface until there’s an audible click and he can push the door open, stepping inside with a brisk pace, his lungs failing to properly expand with every trembling breath he attempts to suck in. It’s his own little secret project, one that he even hacked into Friday to keep from spilling to beans about—what Harley has considered— _eventually._ As in, _later,_ in the future—once Tony retires Iron Man for good and someone has to step up to fill in his place. But later is too far away—Peter needs help _now._

The suit is similar to the classic Iron Man one, except—less bulky, more slim fitting and made with Vibranium, thanks to his friendship with Shuri giving him as much access to the stuff as he reasonably asks for. It’s also not just metal—at the joints, it’s Vibranium-twined fabric, to give him more agility, a better chance to move around, less stiffness in the limbs. It’s got a lot of silver, still, because he hasn’t finished deciding on a color scheme, but there’s hints of blue and purple shimmering in the fabric, really popping out in contrast to the silver metal. It looks more like War Machine than Iron Man because of the lack of color, but that works in his favor, actually—Rhodey is in California right now and isn’t in the fight, so, if he’s lucky, anyone who sees him will just assume it’s War Machine joining the party.

“Someone has to get to him,” Tony is saying, as Harley steps into his suit with the plan to do just that. “Someone has to—I have to—shit, why are there so many of them?! They keep fucking appearing and I have to go make sure my kid is okay and they aren’t—I can’t even do that because there’s so many—”

Harley steps out through the large window that opens in the lab specifically for Tony to be able to fly out of it, hesitates for a second—hasn’t actually flied this thing before, feels inexplicably terrified as he peers down at the ground that’s so far away—but then he hears that cut off scream echoing in his mind and he’s stepping off the ledge without a second thought. “Friday,” he says—doesn’t have his own A.I. built into the thing yet, though he is working on it. The repulsors are the same as the Iron Man suits as of now, because Harley knows that they work and doesn’t want to experiment on trying out new ways to do that without more knowledge and more time, so it only takes him a moment of sputtering out and doing a few weird half spins in the air before he figures out how to stabilize himself. “Give me a map to Peter.”

“Of course, Mister Keener,” Friday responds, and the map appears in front of him instantly. “These are the last known coordinates of the Spider-Man suit before it disconnected. Anything else?”

“Connect me to the comms,” Harley says. “Both ways—so that I can talk to them, too.”

Friday doesn’t respond to that, but there is a small beep a moment later, and then there are voices filling his ears, as the team all yells about trying their best to get away from their own fight to get to Peter. Harley feels overwhelmed by the sound for a second, but manages to keep his head focused on flying in the direction that the map tells him to, makes sure he’s on the right track before loudly—louder than Harley has probably ever been, considering he’s never been one to yell—interrupting everyone else to tell them, “I’m on my way to Peter right now.”

There’s a pulse of silence, before Tony seems to splutter. “Wh— _Harley?!”_

“Yeah. I have a suit, and no one else can get to him, so I’m doing it. I’m three minutes away.”

“You have a—” Tony cuts off, sounding incredulous, which is probably good—he needs a distraction from worrying about Peter, even if for a moment. “Did you steal one of my suits, Keener?”

Harley would probably scoff, or snort, or— _something_ —but he’s now _two_ minutes away from Peter’s last detected location and nothing seems all that amusing right now. “I made one for myself, actually.”

There’s a smattering of stunned laughter from almost everyone, except for Steve, who, sounding serious and concerned, tells Harley, “Be careful, kid. You’ve trained with us before, but you don’t have any _actual_ training for this kind of stuff under your belt. If Peter’s still being swarmed by these things—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harley interrupts. One minute away. “I’m getting him out of it.”

“Harley—”

Before Tony can continue with whatever sort of warning or whatever it is he was planning to say, Harley tells them all, “I’m almost there,” and then has Friday cut the comms. He can’t be distracted right now.

The map says he’s about thirty seconds out, and he feels antsy with it, unsure of what to expect, afraid—god, terrified beyond belief—of what he might find. Flies over the last building in the way and holds his breath anxiously as he scans the street below, sees those aliens, and—they look odd, definitely humanoid but definitely not human, each one nearly seven to eight feet tall and bulky with muscle, skin paper white, reflecting the sunlight in a way that’s blinding from Harley’s vantage point above then, but—no red and blue suit, no webs, so swinging superhero trying to get away.

No Peter.

It clogs in his throat, makes it hard to breathe as he hovers in the air—thankfully going unnoticed by the aliens, as of now—and keeps looking. Chokes on his own inhale as he asks Friday, “Where is he?”

“Last known location was approximately ten feet to your left,” Friday informs him, but when he looks to his left, there’s no sign of Peter ever being there—just a vacant street with these damn aliens swarming across the pavement and towards the building that Harley just flew over. He struggles to catch his breath, wonders—how the fuck did Peter’s suit get so completely shut off, to the point that Friday can’t even track it? How did that happen? As far as he can tell, no one else’s suits have been tampered with by any of the creatures, so it just—doesn’t add up, how only Peter’s suit got messed with like this.

He moves forward, tries to see if a different angle will help him see something he didn’t notice before, watches as more aliens round the corners and head for the one building, pounding against the door and the walls and the windows like they’re _desperate_ to get in—

Oh, shit.

“Friday,” Harley says, eyes going wide. “Check that building for heat signatures.”

There’s a short pause, where Harley just hopes, until Friday tells him, “”One signature detected.”

And Harley just knows, somehow, that it has to be Peter. There’s no way in hell that it isn’t. “Okay,” he murmurs, staring down at the growing pile of aliens that are trying to claw their way into the building, suddenly thankful that, despite them being large and terrifying looking, they don’t seem to be all that intelligent—or, at the very least, they don’t seem to have any knowledge about Earth Architecture, as none of them have seemed to realize that there’s a door on the roof that can get them into the building as well. Which works for Harley, as he quickly flies over to land on the roof and forces the door open. “Where is it? The heat signature? How do I get to it?”

“The heat signature is located on the fifth floor and appears to be moving up the stairs at a very slow pace. Quickest route is to go down the stairwell and meet in the middle.”

Nodding—mostly to himself—Harley starts moving, makes his way down the stairs as fast as he can without actually tripping down them, reaching the twelfth floor, the eleventh, tenth, ninth—keeps going down and glancing at the numbers as he passes them, until—the seventh floor, he turns the corner and—

Peter. No mask, hair matted to his forehead with blood and sweat, red rimmed eyes as he leans against the wall and clutches his abdomen. His suit, looking… melted, almost, at certain points, the skin beneath the melted parts looking like it’s been burned, and it’s clear that he’s favoring his left leg over his right, winces anytime he limps forward and puts weight on it.

“Oh, Jesus,” Harley breathes, his face plate moving back, a shot of cool air making him feel more focused. Peter’s head shoots up at the sound, like—like he didn’t hear Harley approaching, despite the loud clang of metal suit against metal stairs—and he looks shocked for a moment, glancing down at the suit and then up at Harley’s face, but then relief seems to flood over him as he just—lets out some kind of grateful sob and collapses against the next step. Harley feels his heart in his throat, rushes forward with a strangled, “Peter!” and drops to his knee next to Peter with his hands held out.

“I don’t—” Peter tries to say, but stops, spits out a glob of saliva and blood and groans. “I dunno what happened, I just—I was try’na get away and they—one of ‘em grabbed my web and just—threw me into a building like it was nothing, and when I tried getting away again, they just—they grabbed me and it _burned,_ Harley, it—I just—I managed to get in here and I think this building has bulletproof windows ‘cause they haven’t been able to break into it yet and I just—I don’t—”

Harley shushes him gently, lays a hand on his shoulder and helps him, carefully, to his feet. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, bringing Peter closer, and—maybe the suit isn’t all that great because what he really wants is to hug Peter close and feel the fact that he’s alive, but he settles for letting Peter fall into his metal covered chest and let out a heavy, shaky breath. “You’re gonna be fine, honey,” Harley promises him softly. “I’m gonna carry you to the roof, okay? And then I’m gonna fly you home.”

Peter nods, the action small and curt, and mumbles a quiet, “Okay.”

The next morning, Peter blinks his eyes open, feeling groggy—head foggy and unclear, eyes out of focus until he blinks them a few times to fix it. There’s a steady beeping that he instantly recognizes, having had many trips to the Med Bay under his belt to make him accustomed to exactly what the heart monitor sounds like. Slowly, sleepily, he turns his head and looks to his left—nothing. Turns it again, looks to the right, and finds Harley passed out in a chair next to Peter’s bed, one hand clutching Peter’s, the other resting on Peter’s knee limply, soft snores coming from his parted lips where his head is resting on the blankets. Peter smiles, fond, and squeezes Harley’s hand lightly—just enough for him to stir, brows furrowing together and eyes slowly parting, squinting through the low light. It takes him a minute to come to full consciousness, but then he sits up, holding onto Peter’s hand with a more firm and secure grip, wide eyes and sleep-mussed hair.

“Hey,” Peter murmurs, his smile growing.

Harley blinks at him once, twice, then—lunges forward, keeps holding Peter’s hand but brings the other hand up to cradle the side of Peter’s face against his palm, presses a bruising sort of kiss to Peter’s lips that seems to pour out all of the fear and the anxiety. Harley’s shoulders lose tension, his kissing eases from energetic and terrified to soft and loving, until he pulls back and presses his forehead to Peter’s, features open and vulnerable. “You’re an idiot.”

Peter snorts—grins—tells him, “You were in an Iron Man suit.”

“I was in my own suit,” Harley corrects, his smile blindingly bright. “It was supposed to be a secret that I didn’t reveal until after Tony eventually retires, but then you were a dumbass and got hurt and I had to go save you, so—surprise ruined, I guess. It looks cool, though, right?”

With a hum, Peter offers what is, at best, a half-assed sort of nod, not really thinking about how the suit looked or the fact that it’s a Harley suit, not a Tony one. Instead, his mind seems to settle on a single thought, one that sort of seeps into his skin and makes him feel all warm and fuzzy, smile growing soft and fond. “You saved me,” he says, quiet and loving and almost awe-struck at the mere idea.

Harley ducks his head, presses it against Peter’s collarbone. “Kind of, yeah.”

“Not kind of,” Peter insists. “You did. You saved me, Harley. I can’t even—just… Thank you.”

Lifting his head a bit, Harley looks at Peter incredulously, obviously and clearly flabbergasted by Peter’s words. “Why are you thanking me? I know you’re the superhero here, but I’m—I’m your boyfriend, okay? And I swear to god I have _never_ loved someone as much as I love you, and—hearing that, the way that you—that you _screamed,_ before they managed to damage your suit so bad that it completely disconnected, I just… I couldn’t keep sitting in the lab waiting for everyone to come home, just hoping that you’d be okay. That was—not an option. So, yeah, I—I saved you. Same reason why you’ve saved me ten times over whenever my idiot ass ends up in trouble. ‘Cause I love you.”

The way that Peter absolutely _beams_ at that seems to combat the fact that they’re sitting in the Med Bay, makes them both forget that Peter is in a hospital bed and healing from burns and fractures and a broken leg—none of that matters, not in this very moment. Peter squeezes Harley’s hand that he’s still holding onto and uses his free hand to tangle into the hair at the nape of Harley’s neck, says, with so much emotion bleeding into each and every syllable, “I love you, Harley. So much, it’s insane.”

Harley smiles, eyes all soft and full of love, lets Peter pull him in to kiss him again, thinks—

For now, everything is okay.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is spidey-lad who wants to chill


End file.
